


Best Sex of His Life

by FabulaRasa



Category: DCU, DCU (Animated), DCU (Comics)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-24 23:52:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1621520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulaRasa/pseuds/FabulaRasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was written as a response to <a href="http://khazadspoon.tumblr.com/">khazadspoon</a>'s unbelievably hot and smutty and delicious little story, which you can find <a href="http://khazadspoon.tumblr.com/post/85343525057/if-youre-still-taking-prompts-may-i-please-request">here</a>. An inspired anon asked for bottom!Hal, and that was the scorching response.</p><p>But as always, smut made me think angsty thoughts — and besides, it seemed to me that Amie had dropped a few angsty hints in her original work, too. So I asked if she would mind if I riffed on her story a little, and expanded it into a sequel. She graciously agreed, and this is the result.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best Sex of His Life

"Okay, stop, I give, TMI," Barry groaned, setting his carton of Chinese down on the coffee table. Iris laughed. "Not for me," she said. "I'm all ears. You were saying? Best sex of your life?"

"Hands down," Hal said. His legs were stretched out on their coffee table, and he was using chopsticks to pluck through his carton for the water chestnuts, because they were the best. "I mean, he just would not _quit_. I'm telling you I was practically weeping by the end."

"Who came first?"

"Oh, definitely me. Like a fucking firehose, I'm telling you." On the other end of the sofa Barry groaned and put his hands over his ears. Iris flicked a tiny corn cob in his direction. 

"Ignore him," she said. "He blushes if he finds my bra draped over the shower rod. Once, I asked him to buy me tampons, and he was so embarrassed he used his speed to zip through the store and grab the box, and he just left the money on the counter. Turns out he left a fifty, and he refused to go back in for change."

"Jesus," Hal said, taking a swig off his beer. 

"It was an honest mistake," Barry protested. 

"Whatever. So are you going to see him again, or was this a one-time deal?"

Hal shrugged. "Dunno," he said. "Could be. It wasn't exactly like it was a date, you know. This was strictly for getting off. Like guys tend to do. You're probably too much of a girl to understand. Oh, sorry, I thought I was talking to Barry."

"Hey," Barry said, firing a sofa pillow at Hal. Iris laughed, and Hal grinned back at her. From time to time, for fleeting two-second intervals, he would be a little bit sorry Barry had started dating Iris first, because man she was all kinds of cool. But then in the third second he would realize he had a semi-boner for his best friend's wife, and that made him scum, so he would ignore it until the next two-second interval. Of course, it could just be that he thought about sex a lot. That had been the great thing about getting with Bruce; it had been clear that here was a person who possibly—just barely possibly, but still, it was within the realm of possibility—thought about sex as much as he did. 

What he had said to Iris wasn't the entire truth, exactly. He did have a pretty good idea whether it was going to happen again. There was no reason he couldn't have told Iris that. But for whatever reason he didn't. He didn't tell her that along about round three, when he was stretched out face to the floor, hips canted up as Bruce slid in, slowly, and out again, then in again just as slowly, letting him feel every inch of that delicious upthrust until Hal had just given up and cried out every time Bruce slid all the way home—didn't tell her that he had reached a hand behind him and gripped Bruce's ass and just held him there, all the way inside him, not letting him thrust, and the continuous pressure of that, and the pressure of the pillow underneath him, had made him come. _Fucking Jesus—Christ I'm coming_ , he had panted, and Bruce had groaned and held still for it, and Hal could feel the fingers digging into his back as Bruce just kept up the pressure, just filled him while Hal dribbled come into that pillow that had probably cost more than his car. 

Didn't tell her that as his pleasure spasmed out of him, as his fingers relaxed their deathgrip on Bruce's ass, as his breathing subsided into a low panting moan, he had twisted his head back and said _If you tell me we are never doing this again I am going to shoot myself in the face_ , and Bruce had grinned back at him, that half-evil, completely disturbing grin that somehow made Hal's balls contract.

Whatever that grin had been, it hadn't been a no.

* * *

So yeah, they fucked around. But the phrase "fucked around" had always sounded sort of off-handed and friendly to him, and thus in many ways totally inapplicable to what they were doing. They were fucking with deadly intent, and there was no "around" about it. Once or maybe twice a week, though there was that one week it had been three times. And never any of that "up against the wall of a storeroom" kind of shit, because Bruce was clearly not a believer in that. Bruce required at least six hours of time and a ten-yard zone of space in all directions, because once he got going, he was not going to be satisfied with anything but Hal covered in sweat and groaning and clawing at the sheets.

For someone so into the drama of sex, so obviously hungry to see Hal get loud and come undone, Bruce's own orgasms were relatively quiet. He would grip Hal's hips and turn his head to the side, and he would shudder his pleasure inside Hal's body with little noise and less movement. Mostly he would just say Hal's name, like he had the first time—a soft groan of _Hal_ , and then the hot wet inside him—and what that meant Hal did not care to examine. 

So once he tried saying Bruce's name, as he was getting fucked. He had his legs curled around Bruce's neck, and he was getting righteously fucked, and he arched his back and writhed into it, the way he loved to do. He gripped the headboard above him. " _Bruce_ ," he moaned, savoring the sound of it, and then there had been a choking sound, and Bruce was turning his head the way he did when he came, and Hal realized he was coming—coming sooner than he had wanted to. Hal had made him do that. It had been so fucking hot. Hal had jerked it hard and fast, while Bruce was still inside him, and his come had spurted up onto Bruce's abdomen, still heaving above him. 

A couple of times, they even kissed. That was another thing Bruce did with deadly intent. Hal had never really gotten hot from kissing before; kissing was always just what you did as step one, but things weren't going to get really interesting until along about step five or six, so the thing to do was just relax. Kissing had always been more like a meditative prelude, a stretch of the muscles, a first dip in the water before the real plunge.

Bruce's kisses were nothing like that. Bruce's kisses could go on for twenty minutes, and Hal would be so hot by the end of it that the first time he had gotten off by rubbing alone. Bruce had worked a thigh in between his while they kissed, and Hal had come, just pushing up against him, rubbing cocks together with all their clothes on. It was like in everything Bruce did in bed (or out of it, come to think of it) he had missed the "here is how to do this thing like normal people do it" memo. If it was combat training, or fending off intergalactic supervillains, or shoving his tongue down someone else's throat, Bruce Wayne was not going to give up until there was blood on the floor. 

Once, Hal had fallen asleep in Bruce's bed. He hadn't meant to, but it was a little difficult sometimes to remain conscious after having been fucked into the floorboards, and he had just come back from a hell of a grueling mission, and he was bone-deep exhausted. So he had fallen asleep in that wide soft bed that smelled (not unpleasingly) of their own come and sweat, and had awakened to darkness. 

Bruce sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from him. He was gripping the back of his head with his hands, hunched over. "Bruce," Hal said softly, because he knew what nightmares looked liked. He'd lived through enough nights like that himself. On instinct, he reached for Bruce. The arm that smacked him away was brutally rough. Bruce got up and strode for the bathroom, closing the door behind him, and Hal heard the snick of the lock. 

"Fuck you, rich boy," he said, gathering his clothes in the dark. After that he half-expected they were done. He was halfway to done, himself. But two days after that Bruce had texted him with a date and a time, and Hal had stared narrowly at the screen. He considered ignoring it. He didn't reply, but he still showed up, and nothing was said about what had happened before.

* * *

When his invitation to the Wayne Christmas party had arrived, he couldn't help the smug little grin. Because all right, he wasn't an idiot, and the whole thing with the nightmare notwithstanding, it was beginning to be pretty plain that Bruce was into him. Like, _into_ him into him. It wasn't just one thing that told him that. It was all the things he hadn't told Iris or Barry—the way Bruce said his name when he was coming, the intentness in his eyes when they were fucking, the way Bruce would kiss him. It was a lot of things, small in themselves, but clues to the larger whole, and Hal wasn't stupid.

He considered having a T shirt made: _Batman Wants To Tap This_. But Bruce would probably stick a sign on the back that said _Batman has repeatedly tapped this_. Bruce did, as it turned out, have a sense of humor, though it was definitely on the strange side. So yeah, it was hard not to feel a little bit smug about the whole thing, especially given Bruce's many snide remarks to him over the last few years.

Not that the snide remarks had stopped, actually. Nothing in Bruce's behavior toward him had changed in the least, in uniform or out of it. But that was okay—he hadn't expected it would. It still felt pretty good to know that every time Spooky snapped at him in a League meeting, all he had to do was visualize that mouth around his cock. Sometimes he even amused himself by imagining the things he could say across the table at him, like _Damn, you sounded a lot less cranky when you were choking on my dick last night_. Of course, Bruce would lunge across the table and remove his throat, but for those five seconds it would be worth it.

So yeah, he was a little bit pleased about the invitation. He might have left it out on his counter when Barry stopped over for a beer, and might have given a cock-eyed grin when Barry had made some remark about it. The invitation didn't say he would be Bruce's date, obviously, but Hal had a pretty good idea that there would be sex at some point that evening. Maybe in a wine cellar, of which he was betting Wayne Manor had several. He had always wanted to have sex in a wine cellar. Or maybe in an upstairs bedroom, on top of all the fur coats. And afterward he could drink champagne and leer across the room at Bruce, who would pretend to be listening to someone else, but he would flick his eyes over at Hal, and Hal would know exactly what he was thinking. 

Hal didn't own a tux, and rental seemed like something a teenager did for his prom, so he decided to do the adult thing and buy his own. Who knew, it might come in handy some day, if he ever decided to give up being a pilot for a career in catering or concert musicianship. It looked pretty spiff on him, too—he didn't go for the cheap option, and he did actually have decent taste in clothes, for someone who spent half his life in an unwashed flight suit and the other half in glowing green spandex. So the night of the party he showed up feeling pretty good about himself, and relatively sure this was maybe going to be one of the better nights of his life—great party, gorgeous mansion, free food and drinks, and some brain-meltingly hot sex to top it off. What could possibly go wrong?

Which should have been his first clue. 

"Shrimp chutney crostini, sir?" The waiter's voice was jarringly at odds with his bored expression, but then again this was the man's seventh circuit of the room. Hal was his most reliable customer. Everyone else was too busy dancing or drinking to do much eating—or in the case of the women, clearly had last eaten in the 90s. Hal took another crostini and stood aside, trying not to position himself behind the potted evergreen and probably failing. Somewhere in the last ten years of missions he had lost his small talk ability, which was a shocking discovery. He had always thought of himself as a pretty social guy, but then again, the last party he had actually attended had been his senior year of college. So he sipped his champagne and positioned himself on the grand sweep of stairway leading up from the ballroom and watched the party unfurl at his feet, just enjoying the spectacle of it, which was not in itself a bad way to spend an evening.

And halfway through the party, he realized it was the worst night of his life.

It was the same sensation as coming out of hyperwarp with broken shock coils. In earth terms, it was a flat spin. It was the same sickening drop, the same clench of nausea. 

It was just that he had finally caught sight of Bruce, standing in the middle of a group of loudly laughing men, his arm draped around the waist of a stunningly gorgeous red-haired woman. That was it. Just one glance. Bruce hadn't even looked his direction, hadn't even known he was there, probably. Hal couldn't even have said what it was that revealed to him, in that instant, his mistake. But mistake it clearly was.

He watched Bruce for a while, from his vantage on the stairs. Bruce moved from group to group, working the room, Bruce laughed louder than any of them, Bruce's hand strayed ever lower on his date's behind. She was without a doubt the classiest woman there. There was no faulting Bruce's taste.

He wanted to laugh out loud, and for a minute he actually did. If his insides hadn't been bleeding out, it would have been fucking hilarious. It was just that Bruce's thumb made it impossible to lie to himself anymore. Bruce's thumb was stroking a small repetitive path on the woman's lower back, as he stood there nodding and listening to some blowhard talk to him. That was it: just the small intimacy of that thumb, on the woman's flawless skin.

"You fucking idiot," he said, to his plateful of crostinis.

The funny part was, of course, how he had made himself believe how into him Bruce was, when all the time it had been the exact other way around, as the crater hollowing his stomach made plain. 

After a while, Hal found a tray to put his champagne glass on, and made his way toward what was possibly the direction of the front door. The press of people meant there was no way he was getting out the same way he got in, so after a bit of that he gave up and aimed for one of the glass doors onto the terrace, trusting he could find his way to the driveway from there. Some servant had valet-parked his car, probably snickering at the sad late-model Honda whose seats Hal had forgotten to clean off. Not that it mattered. 

The night was frigid, which meant no partygoers were drifting outside. He had the gardens to himself, and he quickly found the crunch of gravel under his feet that probably led to the front of the giant stone pile Bruce called a house. Hal kept his head down and walked quickly, and after navigating a few hedges the size of tractor-trailers, was within sight of the wide sweep of circular drive out front when he was caught off guard by the voice behind him.

"Hal." Bruce was standing on a stone terrace that jutted out into this part of the garden. Hal stopped. "I'm guessing you didn't just discover you left something in your car."

The light was behind him, spilling out onto the little terrace from the glass doors. His face was mostly obscured. Hal gave a taut smile. "'Fraid not. I've got a test flight first thing in the morning. Need to tuck in early tonight."

Bruce's face was not so obscured that Hal couldn't see the steady gaze of those eyes. He took a beat too long to answer, like he was undeceived by Hal's admittedly lame excuse. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said. 

"Yeah. Well, I imagine you have a party to get back to, so."

"The party appears to be doing fine without me. Why are you leaving?"

"I told you, I've got an early flight. Go on back inside and get back to your date, I'm good."

"My date is standing on the driveway," Bruce said, "ditching me."

"No," Hal said. "A date is someone you talk to. I'm an after-party fuck. Only the thing is, there have got to be at least six hundred candidates for that under your roof tonight. So please go back inside and pick one of them, all right?"

"Hal." Bruce stepped forward, and his face was visible now. "That wasn't me. The person you saw in there, that wasn't me. I have to be Bruce Wayne in there, and there are certain things I have to do, certain ways I have to behave to make that work. I thought you understood that. It isn't just about protecting my identity, it's about protecting the people tied to me, it's about my family, it's about my—"

Right on cue, the door behind him opened, and music drifted out, and a woman's throaty laugh. A handsome dark-haired young man glanced quickly between them. "Hey Hal," he said, in some surprise. "Nice tux."

"I know, right?" Hal said. "How's it going, Dick."

"Can't complain. Except about the mayor, who is getting, shall we say, increasingly impatient for some attention from his host. You coming back in, Bruce?"

"No," Bruce said sharply. "You'll have to deal with him."

"Bruce, just _go_ the fuck back inside, what are you doing."

Dick glanced between them again. "Okay," he said. "Well, you two work that out. I'm headed back in I guess. Good to see you, Hal."

"You too," Hal said. There was silence when the door clicked behind him. Hal slipped his hands in his pocket and stared at the gravel.

"Look," he said. "I'm sorry, for what I said before. You were right. I'm the one who got it wrong, okay? I thought I could do the casual thing, and it turns out I actually, and completely unforeseeably, suck at it. I thought it was fine, but it's not fine, so I'm just going to head home now. It's a really nice party, though. Thank you for inviting me."

He turned to head down the walk, and heard the sound of Bruce landing on the gravel beside him. He turned in surprise, before he remembered that this was Batman he was talking to, and vaulting over a low stone railing was going to be no trouble for him. "What are you doing," Hal sighed. "You're going to destroy your tux."

"I'll buy a new one," Bruce said. "And if that's the only thing I managed to destroy tonight, I'll count myself lucky. Hal. Please."

"You didn't do anything wrong, just—"

"Evidently I did, because you are walking away, and somehow—foreseeably, in my case—I managed to screw up my one chance with you."

Hal weighed that. Bruce was just standing there, waiting. He wondered how long he would stand there and wait, if Hal asked him to. _You hurt me_ , he considered saying. But Bruce already knew that. That's why Bruce was standing there, and waiting for him. "Are you sleeping with her?" was what he said instead. "Your date?"

"I am not."

"Why not?"

"Two very good reasons, but the most important one is that I have been otherwise occupied for the last six weeks."

"That's weird, because that's the exact amount of time we've been sleeping together."

"Strange, isn't it."

"What was the other reason?"

"She's gay." 

"So you guys have that in common," Hal pointed out.

"I'm bi."

"Yeah, I know. I was making a joke. Bruce. I really do have an early flight tomorrow. Carol will roast my nuts if I'm not on flight deck by five-thirty."

"All right."

Hal hesitated. "I'll call you tomorrow after my flight," he said softly, and leaning forward he brushed his lips against Bruce's cheek: the most intimate and shocking gesture he could think of. He heard the small stutter of Bruce's breath at it, caught the slight widening of pupil. And then his own cheek was being kissed, and he felt the smoothness of Bruce's recent pre-party shave, inhaled the heady scent of his cologne. In Europe people generally kissed three times in farewell, so it seemed only right, given the European architecture of Wayne Manor, that they lean in for a third time, lips on lips this time. Only this one went on a bit longer, and now there were hands on his waist. 

"Hey Bruce, do you—okay," and the door clicked shut, as Dick quickly pulled his head back inside. Of course they were in perfect view from the door, of course. Bruce seemed completely unfazed. This wasn't like any of the kissing they had done before, because there didn't seem any other aim in sight but the kissing, and Bruce wasn't maneuvering himself closer or pushing his hands in anywhere. His hand was on Hal's jaw, in fact. 

Now Bruce was pulling back, his eyes searching Hal's face, glancing down him. "Dick was right," he murmured. "It is a very nice tux."

* * *

Somewhere, a phone buzzed, and Hal tried to brush it away with his hand. He was sitting out in the back yard at his buddy Ryan's house, downing a surreptitious beer, but this late in a Kentucky July, the mosquitos were making him miserable. He kept trying to swat them away. And then he raised his head and wondered when Ryan's trashy back yard had become so wide and white and soft, and—

"Holy shit holy shit holy shit," he panted, as he vaulted across the room only half awake. "Holy fucking motherfucking asslicking jesusfisting _shit!_ Shit shit _shit!_ "

In the bed, Bruce lifted a bleary head. "What are you doing?"

"Shit shit shit shit _shit!_ Carol is going to kill me, it is quarter to six, I swear to God I set my fucking alarm, oh Jesus _shit!_ " He had one leg in his pants, and was fumbling for his shoes somewhere under a chair. "Can you not help me find my motherfucking _shoes?_ "

Bruce stretched and rolled over, reaching for a pillow to prop his head. Bruce gave himself to sleep like he did to any pleasure, which was to say, with wholehearted abandon, but Hal would not let himself think about that now, not while his life was burning in flaming chunks all around him. 

"Oh Jesus Christ, I am so unemployed, no, I am not even unemployed, I am dead dead _dead_ , Carol is going to kill me and hide the body in a national park where no one will find me until squirrels have eaten my eyeballs and—oh thank _Christ_ ," he said, spotting at least one shoe. At what point in the evening had his shoe ended up in the vase on the mantel? He was not even going to think about that one. 

Bruce yawned, and stretched again. "Entertaining as this is," he said, "I feel I should point out that Carol texted you an hour and a half ago that the flight had been pushed back to ten. I was going to let you sleep."

"You—what?" Hal hurled the shoe at him, and unsurprisingly Bruce caught it and pitched it back. "You motherfucking asshole, you just let me have a heart attack? You fucking douchenozzle, are you serious?"

Bruce rolled the other direction and gave another lazy stretch. "We're going to have to have a discussion about language, before you spend much time around Damian. The last thing he needs is a more expanded vocabulary." 

"Did she say why? Is something wrong?"

Bruce gestured at the window. "Take a look."

Hal kicked off his half-on pants and went to the window, pulling back the sheer curtain over the glass door to the balcony. "Wow," he said with a grin. There was a dusting of snow over everything—the hedges, the masonry, the lawns—and on the terrace he could see the sheets of ice underlying the snow. He stood there taking it in. "That is. . . really beautiful," he said.

"Yes it is," Bruce agreed, but he didn't appear to be looking out the window. "Come back to bed."

"And why would I do that," Hal said with a lazy smile. It wasn't like he was unaware of the way Bruce was looking at him, standing naked in the gray light of a snowy morning.

"Because you've got at least two hours before you have to leave, and I can't help but think of all the fucking we could be doing between now and then."

"Now who's got the dirty mouth." He let the curtain fall, and crawled back over the wide expanse of Bruce's bed to where Bruce pulled back the covers and folded him in, strong arms around him. "Oh I see why you wanted me back here," Hal said. "Or should I say, I feel why. Maybe you need a little help with that," he said, and he rubbed through the sheet at Bruce's substantial morning wood.

"I was using fucking as a noun, which I have no problem with. I was objecting to your use of fucking as an adjective."

"God, you drive me wild with your filthy talk. Tell me more about parts of speech, you animal."

Bruce flipped him effortlessly, pinning him. He was rubbing against Hal, still with the sheet rucked up between them. "Let's see about shutting you up, shall we." But instead of a kiss he moved lower. He spread Hal's thighs apart and licked at the head of his cock, which was definitely waking up now.

"Oh God," Hal panted. "You are so fucking good at that. Get your tongue on me, yes."

Bruce tongued his slit, and then swallowed him all the way down. "Oh _God_ ," Hal groaned, and Bruce raised his head.

"Keep it down a little. This is not the penthouse. I don't need Alfred rushing in here with a med kit."

"Oh why the fuck not, I'm going to be in need of—fuck, stop." He pushed at Bruce's head, because he needed to catch his breath. It was just that the sensation was so intense, Bruce's tongue so wickedly skilled. Bruce's idea of _stop_ was to move instead to his balls, mouthing and licking them. Hal let his head drop back against the pillow. The pillows on this bed were enormous for some reason. Probably custom. More evidence of Bruce's hedonism, which amused him. And then Bruce moved back to his cock, and Hal stopped thinking about pillows, because there was a thick finger nudging at his hole, and it had somehow gotten slick. Bruce was handy with the lube like that. 

"Yeah, put it in me," he whispered. "Oh Christ." Something about Bruce's fingers was perfectly suited to his body, because Bruce did this thing where he didn't bump against the gland, or hit it repeatedly, but just lightly rubbed—a steady constant pressure that made Hal crazy with the need to come. "Jesus Christ, don't stop." 

Bruce was at three fingers now, and somehow it had never felt quite this good, the brakes had never felt quite this removed. There was a thumb stroking the soft skin between his balls and his ass. He planted his heels on the mattress, raised his ass and just fucked himself on Bruce's fingers, just rode them. "God, look at you," Bruce murmured. "Oh God."

"It's so good—you have to stop, I can't—oh fuck— _fuck_ —" His cock began to jerk and spill. His spine was curling, his world narrowing to just those fingers fucking him. For all he knew it was Bruce's whole hand; God knew it felt like it. The hand was thrusting now, and at every thrust Hal spurted come onto his chest, his belly. He was being milked. He cried out because it was too good, and he couldn't stop.

He spun down from his high to see Bruce crouched over top of him, jerking himself hard, open-mouthed. "Nuh uh," Hal said, rolling to the side. "Come on, do it."

But he didn't—or at least, he didn't do what Hal had meant. He curled up behind Hal and just started humping him. Not the smooth, controlled, grab-your-ankles- kind of thrusting Bruce normally did when they fucked, but a desperate, hungry, insistent kind of fucking, right up against his backside. His cock was sticky and wet, and Hal could feel its heat on his ass. 

"Like _this_ ," Hal whispered, though why the fuck he was whispering who knew—he was pretty sure his groans when he had been coming had been audible in the basement. He maneuvered a little, and then Bruce's cock was sliding in between his thighs, and suddenly he wasn't the only one with the loud groans. 

Bruce was grunting, actually, right in his ear. "Come on," Hal whispered again. "Take what you want." A heavy arm snaked around his neck, bending it back, and then Bruce was making these small choking noises.

" _Hal_ ," he groaned, right in Hal's ear, his arm quivering as he came. There was come in between Hal's thighs and on the pillow wedged against him. Hal gripped the arm around his neck. They lay like that for a few minutes, and then Bruce bent his forehead and leaned it against the back of Hal's. They didn't say anything. Hal listened to Bruce's breathing rasp and slow. 

"Dammit," he said, remembering.

"What," was murmured into his neck.

"I just remembered I meant to do that too. That thing you do." He could feel Bruce raising a curious head, behind him. "Where you say my name when you come. That's fucking sexy. I meant to remember to do that."

The bed behind him shook, and Hal realized Bruce was laughing, or as close as he came to it. Hal twisted around. "What. What did I possibly say that was so goddamn funny."

"Nothing. I just had a sudden visual of you moaning your own name when you come, and it was completely believable."

Hal elbowed him, but Bruce caught the elbow and rolled them so they were facing. This landed him pretty much right in the wet spot, but he adjusted the sheet beneath him and appeared not to care. "I mean it, I really meant to remember to do that," Hal said.

"You did," Bruce said.

"I did?"

"Mm hm."

"That's entirely possible. I have about zero memory of what I said for like, five minutes on either side of that. Sorry about that. For my hair-trigger there. I did mean to hold on longer, I honestly did."

"Morning sex," Bruce said. "It happens. And. . . you have nothing to be sorry for. That was. . ." For a minute Hal wondered what he was thinking, because he looked like he wasn't going to complete that sentence, and for a while they just looked at each other. "You said my name, all right," Bruce finally said. 

He didn't mean to fall asleep again, he really didn't. He liked to sleep as much as the next ridiculously over-worked, continually sleep-deprived person, but once he was awake, he was awake. Falling back asleep was a little too much like napping, and he preferred to save that for the nursing home, or whatever the Green Lantern equivalent of that would be. Probably the Guardians would just euthanize them all the minute they needed reading glasses, or something. He had just begun to drift into the borderlands of this incredibly disturbing dream about the Guardians in miniature green monocles and how the Lanterns were all going to have their optical nerves removed and replaced with tiny blue telescopes, when he cracked an eyelid to the same gray light as before, just a little more of it. 

His head was pillowed on Bruce's chest. There was an arm absently draped across him, and there was light from a pad Bruce was scrolling through, propped with his other arm. "Wait," Hal croaked. "What else?"

"Hm? Go back to sleep, I'll wake you in a bit."

Hal raised his head a little, enough to see that Bruce was wearing glasses. For a moment he wasn't certain if he was still in his dream or not. The rimless glasses were so fucking sexy, for a second it took his breath away. Wow, that was a fetish he hadn't even been aware he had. "You okay?" Bruce looked a little concerned.

"Ahh. . . yeah. I was just gonna ask, what else? You said I said your name _all right_. What did that mean?"

"What did what mean?"

"Stop being deliberately—you know what I mean. Saying _all right_ like that implies that, you know, I did a lot more than just that. What did I say?"

"I honestly don't remember."

Hal narrowed his eyes. "In other words, you have no intention of telling me."

"Absolutely none."

"You're pretty sure of yourself, for a man wearing nothing but glasses."

"I am. But I like my chances. I have a couple of things going for me, not least of which is that I'm the—"

"Don't say it," Hal groaned. He put his head back down on the surprisingly comfortable chest. "How much longer I got?"

"About forty minutes. Go to sleep." The arm draped across him again, and Hal settled into it.

It was funny, but this morning was as close as they had come so far to bad sex. Or maybe not bad sex, strictly speaking, but sex which hadn't gone exactly according to fifty-minute porno-plot plan. And yet he had never had a more obliterating orgasm in his life, or ever felt after sex . . . quite like what he was feeling right now, like someone had painted his insides with something warm and full of light. He was smiling, for absolutely no reason he could think of.

"No but seriously," he murmured. "What things."

"Go back to sleep," Bruce whispered, scrolling to another page.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, more fannish discussion and fic can be found on my [tumblr.](http://fabula-unica.tumblr.com)


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